New Ulm weekly review., 1887-03-09
DOC.
A Simple Tale of Southern Backw00ds Life


a pitifal 10 oking boy. He was alittle,
puffy-looking chap, with a pale face,
small, bony arms and short, weakly
looking legs, and rather sickly-looking,
!razzle up, straw colored hair on his
head. There was no personal bsauty
about Docs face and figure, and yet
he was not unusually hard favored.
He was commonplace. Only that
and nothing more. Only a. pea in 81
pod where dozen peas of similar ap-
pearance reposed. Only a. little wire
grass boy, with not one redeeming
feature about him: except his eyes.
They were only remarkable for the
pathetic expression that fingered there.
What little light that ever flashed
from them was of that sorrowtul cast
that one observes lingering on the
western horizon after q day y'srain has
closed in a humid sunset.
Doc lost his mother. That was the
tie that bound us to him. She was
a commonplace wire grass woman, but
in her uncultured soul dwelt the same
traits ofmaternal love and cherishing
tenderness thatis supposed to illu-
mine the high born souls ofthose grand
DANES whose white hands have never
battled against q hard and evil fate
for the simple necessities fprolonging
existence. She has nourished and
cherished her little boy, as only a fond
mother can nourish and cherish
weak and fragile child. Ever on the
watch, she had stood between him
and all the wild streams of adversity
that ragged about their humble log
cabin in the desolate barrens.
When she died Doc took it to heart
to greater extent than any of us
thought possible. He had been such
punv, peevish, pettish sort OF a boy,
that we thought that only his selfish.
ness could suffer. We were mistaken.
Doc was older than his age.
Well, do l remember how mother
used to toast the crispest bits of
brown cornbread, softened with the
fresh, sweet butter; and how she used
to put a big lump of that brown,
mush sugar IN his coffee, so as to in
duce the little fellow to eat.
"You know his ma is dead" she
used to say, "and we must try to keep
him from missing her in every way we
can."
And we were learning. We were
beng taught the grandest lesson in
human lore-the creed OF ofunselfshness.
We could not get him to join us Of
ten in any play. He was too weak.
But when the afternoon sun shone
through the riffs in the great pine for
est, he would creep out on the sunny
side with us, and we would adjust
our sports to his strength.
Sometimes he would look up from
his play, with his eyes full OF tears, he
would exclaim: "My ma is dead! I
can't ever see her no more" Then he
would sob and moan as if his little
heart would break, and I am not
ashamed to say we would cry too.
"Might not the Lord take our dear
mother, too?" we asked ourselves.
All! my sainted mother! Thy love-
lighted brown eyes have been closed
to earthly scenes for many summers.
They closed your poor toil-worn
hands above your cold still heart a
long, long time ago and the tall pines
have shed from their dropping
boughs the purest distilled dews OF
heaven above your lonely grave: and
yet, in my dreams see that face Oft
en- and again, and never accomplish
a good deed or am guilty of a bad
one, but what yours is the first name
that flashes through my intellect. A
man may have ten thousand friends,
even two well-beloved wives, but new.
er but one mother. Blessed be that
holy name above all earthly treasures
most sacred and longest. cherished.
] AS the spring days grew warmer and
the timid wood violets peeped forth
on the banks where the sun fingered
longest, our protege grew more ro-
bust. There was even a faint tinge
of blood in his pallid cheek after a
short walk about the plantation.
Deeper green grew the woodlands.
The rugged pines even touched them
selves up with a few gay tufts of a
softer tint, and from their queer
blossoms fell showers of gold dust
that covered the still surfaces o1
the water ponds The trailing
jasmine covered itself with golden
bloom, and the honeysuckle and dog
wood blossoms made the swamps and
lowlands radiant with gay hues and
redolent with delicate perfume. Birds
sang among the bursting buds on the
crabapple tree. and the blue arch o1
heaven was glided with the fine gold
OF the life-giving sunlight.
4 Our sports aud pastimes would
seem funny to you. We went fishing
nights. It was only half a mile to the
creek, and on a little bluff that over
hung the dark waters we could build
our campfres, and then cast our
crude tackle in the gloomy eddies
where the FIRE light played in ftful
waves of light and shadow Doc diu
i love to fish. We would dig in the
trash heaps for muck worms or skin
| the pine logs for sawyers, and then we